


“Moon riding high”

by Creamteasforever



Series: Fudge 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fatlock, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brother Mycroft has a secret. Sherlock’s taken aback to find out what it is. John just wants to feed everyone. A followup to “The Fudge Affair”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Moon riding high”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Fatlock. “Mycroft puts on weight in Uni and letting everyone (Mummy, friends (should he have some), Sherlock) think that he can’t control himself around a buffet when the truth is that Greg and he are exploring their kinks for the first time.”

There were things about being a couple, John had discovered, that nobody thought to mention and you sort of had to work out for yourselves. Such as how romantic it sounded to say you’d sleep with your partner every single night forever, until the first unexpected forty-degree heatwave came along - they had had a solid try at it for a good half-hour anyway, before Sherlock had bailed and begged to sleep on the new sofa instead. John had honestly been glad to see the back of him, though they’d made up for it the next night after buying a heavy-duty fan. Then there were the things that you were told, but which took on a new import once you were in a committed relationship, like always keeping a stash of emergency chocolate on hand - emergencies occurring like clockwork at least once a week, three times that in exam season. And then there were the more eccentric rituals which probably applied only if you were in a relationship with someone as downright odd as Sherlock Holmes.

These last including but not limited to: spending every Saturday morning swapping gossip with the homeless population in town (“pay attention to the people who nobody notices, John. Often as not they know far more about the situation than the ones supposedly in charge”), coming along to assist with the butchery of unsuspecting pigs at local farms (“it’s a wonderful deal. First we get to examine the remains of a recently deceased mammal, then we get bacon!”), and cheering Sherlock up about his weekly letters to his brother. Or was consoling your boyfriend about irritating family members one of the obvious things? John wasn’t sure.

It seemed more than a little silly, since Mycroft apparently wasn’t far away geographically, but he’d never have mentioned that. Sherlock’s attitude towards the letters was curiously ambivalent. He spoke about them disparagingly as a tedious chore, left them until the last minute, filled them with casual insults and never allowed sentiment to creep in, and yet somehow there was always one ready for the post Saturday at noon. There was a connection here of sorts, if not a typical one. 

His brother wrote letters back, just as meticulously. John had seen one or two, rather stiff and largely concerned with describing the progression of his doctoral programme, or the political connections he was forging. Not very interesting, but still: he did want to meet the man, out of sheer curiosity if nothing else. Sherlock was such a riddle, so independent a character, that John wanted to know if his brother was remotely like him or if he was dating the family black sheep. 

After about a month of this (a whole month of dating Sherlock! which, if not quite unmitigated pleasure was undeniable joy), a letter had come saying that Mycroft would be in town next week, on business. He’d be at a local restaurant around noon if his brother was inclined to drop by and say hullo. Sherlock had shaken his head and dismissed the possibility out of hand. 

John said nothing then, simply proposed they go out on a picnic.

Two hours, considerable cheese, wine, and several meat and fruit pies later (Sherlock happy to take the lead on stuffing John, as per normal), they were cuddled together on the grassy lawn behind the college, the one that sloped down to the river. John sprawled over the grass to watch the antics of fellow students and tourists haphazardly trying to punt up the river, while Sherlock, replete, had closed his eyes and looked as though he was half-dozing. Good odds that he was now in that amiable, unobsessed mood that John found it easiest to tackle him in.

(Not that he really worried about that most of the time – Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock without his obsessive bloodhound personality – but if you wanted to sweet-talk him, best do it with some sweets on hand.)

“About this brother of yours,” he began, straight out. “I’d like to see him sometime. Pride myself on getting the good one, if nothing else.”

Snort. “He has all my faults accentuated, I can assure you. Even more ostentatious, smug, and self-righteous, and I do know how bad that sounds. The only reason I’m thinking about introducing the two of you at all…”

John bit down his impulse to say “no you’re not” in the interests of getting on with the conversation. “Yes?”

“Well, he probably knows all about you already, for one.” Sherlock looked him over fondly and kissed him lightly on the chest, half a dozen times, as he pulled himself up to nestle against John more closely. “Wouldn’t put it past him to order a background check and detectives nosing into your past. He has a political future to think of, you see. It wouldn’t do for little brother to be getting involved with someone inappropriate now.”

“He’s not…he wouldn’t think we’re inappropriate? He’s not homophobic or anything?”

“Lord, no. That, at least, I can promise isn’t one of his faults. Though he couldn’t bring himself to coo at anything with more blood in it than a timetable. But he would want to know if you have a questionable background, and doubtless wouldn’t take my word for it.”

“I could have, for all you know. Not talked about myself much before uni, have I? For all you know I could be a big scary axe murderer.”

Sherlock tweaked his nose. “Don’t be silly, John. I’d know.”

“No one knows everything about everybody.”

“I said. I’d know. I’m going to be the person who knows these things, remember?”  
His boyfriend’s tone was confident and the slightest touch tetchy. John grinned and switched topics. “It’s not as if you’re the only one with a silly sibling. I haven’t told you about Harry yet, have I?” He thought back to her last email, remembered an inane anecdote about her and the cat and a pitcher of Pimm’s, and they laughed it over together. Mycroft was forgotten, for the moment.

 

Saturday morning, though, Sherlock unexpectedly announced that they might as well go; John thought he ought to look his best, dragging a decent outfit out of storage for the occasion – not the loose jeans and jumper he favoured these days – and went off to take a quick shower.

Sherlock was already bundled up in his big coat, absorbed in applying baked beans and salad cream to toast. Which was odd, John thought; he normally skived off anything quite that stodgy if it didn’t involve sugar.

“Isn’t that a little counter-productive? If we are going to lunch in a bit.”

“Lunch with Mycroft, which is why I’m eating now. You might like to do the same. He is one of those sorts of people who can make you feel self-conscious about eating more any more than a bird.” Sherlock determinedly took a huge bite out of one open-faced sandwich, choked slightly, but continued plowing through it diligently.

“Why?”

“Controlling personality, I told you. Always slimmer than I was, better grades, better social graces. He could have had his pick of jobs after his BA, but no, he said he’d never have time in his later career to take a doctorate so he’d better do it now.”

Something clicked into place; John guessed this must be at least part of why Sherlock couldn’t bear the idea of consuming his own fudge. Which, all things considered, hadn’t turned out so badly, but still…He patted his boyfriend comfortingly on the rump. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

The next comment was half-muffled by chewing, which John suspected was on purpose. “I don’t want to, but that’s not the point. Might as well get it over with. Want one?”

Always fond of beans on toast, John took several slices. Preparations to go temporarily ceased in the fun prompted by a combination of solitude, food, and the energy of high-stress levels, with considerable caressing and fondling. 

Sherlock grinned at him afterwards in mock amazement. “I never fail to be impressed at your capacity.”

“That was what you hired me for, wasn’t it? Remember that? Paying me and everything?”

It was a running gag between them, that Sherlock had never actually got around to the compensation for the last week of fudge-tasting, because they’d moved in together afterwards and it would have just been awkward. John knew that if he truly needed the money Sherlock would have it for him, and Sherlock knew that he knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew that he knew, so it wasn’t a source of trouble. Just one of those things.

“But maybe you can pay the cheque,” he suggested, as they started on their belated way. “That should about cover it, right? I’ll just eat it out.”

“You’d better eat a lot, then. I want to get my value for money if I’m doing that, see you really enjoying yourself…”

John found himself giggling, seeing Sherlock’s would-be serious expression; the difference between what his boyfriend actually did and what he was willing to say could be abrupt, and their odd tastes made the most innocuous statements seem like dirty double entendres sometimes. He did have such a tendency to turn a pretty pink when embarrassed, too. That was a tell that would have to go if he’s to make a detective, John supposed, and while there was nothing wrong with that as such, it did seem rather a pity.

 

The restaurant turned out to be a teashop, an uncommonly posh one even by this city’s fancy tourist-attractor standards. John motioned towards the door handle; Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it, peering inside through the glass. “I want to have a look at him before I come in, work myself up to the inevitable…good lord!”

“What is it?”

“He’s got fat, is what.” Sherlock yanked the door open and charged in, with an enthusiasm that left John breathless.

“Brother dear! I’ve brought along my partner, John Watson. Be nice to him, or we’re both leaving.”

“Delighted, certainly,” Mycroft said, extended a large, soft hand.

John shook it, trying to reconcile the mental image he’d had with this plump, roly-poly figure. He’d pictured someone much like Sherlock but moreso, that same esthetic of wind-swept hair and sleek thinness. Instead Mycroft tended more toward sandy ginger than Byronic black, his facial structure less angular and more round even without the chubby layer of fat that topped it off. Only the eyes looked the way John had guessed; grey, grey and blue like ocean light reflecting off a warship, not at all the playful blue-green of his brother’s. Sherlock wouldn’t have come to mind as anyone’s idea of the domestic type, but as he watched the two interacting, swapping barbs not a whit softened by the presence or the public space, John found himself thinking that his boyfriend had never looked so loveable before.

Still, the plumpness did much to humanise Mycroft, make his dark unreadableness seem approachable, and it appeared he hadn’t had the slightest notion of dieting, either; Sherlock contented himself with a cup of tea and a scone, and John followed his lead (adding a couple of sandwiches – he did like to eat a little more than his boyfriend, all else being equal), but when the frizzle-haired waiter asked Mycroft what he wanted, well!

“You know, this isn’t the most extensive selection. I mean, there’s an admittedly reasonable cream tea, and then a good many other flavours of tea, and some other beverages that you insist on calling tea even though they’re herbs and not tea at all. No Chelsea buns? No flapjacks?”

The waiter stiffened. “We are a teashop. The most extensive and exquisite in the community. If you wanted a bakery, there are three just down the street.”

“I know,” Mycroft murmured. “Oh, never mind, never mind.” He handed him back the glossily laminated paper. “Look, everything on the menu, all right? Except the tea. Just because it’s here, I’m drinking coffee. Heavy on the milk and six sugars.”

“Everything? That would be a considerable sum - ”

“Everything. On this rather sad and short menu it should only be thirty-five pounds or so. Here, take this and give me a tenner back.” He slapped a note down without looking and turned back to Sherlock. “Really, though, if I’d known a relationship would do this much for your sense of security I’d have found you one ages ago. You’re much more self-assured. It’s refreshing.”

“I wouldn’t have taken advice from you on dating if you’d found me an all-singing, all-dancing romantic prospect on a silver platter, all right? You might know better than that.”

“If your tastes ran towards triple threats….but you think I’d have been that obvious? I’d have simply discouraged you from going after the romantic prospect in question, you’d have been in like a shot. That works in all the Victorian novels you like so.” He nodded at John. “Sherlock’s always rather fancied the period. The vanguard of police work, when they were still carving out the rules. Realising that it might be a good idea to try to apply all these bright new Enlightenment ideas of logic to more practical endeavours such as finding criminals. Likes the idea of himself with a magnifying glass and a swishy cape, too. Dusting for fingerprints before it’s a cliche.”

“Mycroft, I was fourteen. Everyone’s entitled to a phase. At least mine didn’t involve Stephen Fry impersonations.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Good god.”

“Oh? I will have you know that it was thought of very highly by the Cambridge Footlights, when I showed it off for them last year…”

And so on and so forth. John stayed out of most of it, eating quietly and adding comments where appropriate. He observed Mycroft’s own enthusiastic consumption with the air of a fellow connoisseur; it wasn’t just a matter of having put on weight, he actively enjoyed his food. There was one point where John was wrinkling his nose at the cucumber sandwiches – too watery, the bread had gone soft – and saw Mycroft doing the same simultaneously. Mycroft noticed too, addressed a comment to him in politer terms than he’d been using. 

“You know, I am sorry about this place. It seemed to have a good reputation, is all, and I’d not been here previously.”

“Why would you,” Sherlock grumbled. “Tisn’t your city.”

John merely grinned and shrugged. Sympathy for a fellow eater and all that - it wasn’t like Sherlock quite got food in the same fashion. Feeding was different from being fed, when you came right down to it.

Eventually came comments about the time, as Mycroft looked at his watch and said he’d have to be going soon, some paperwork he had in mind to do and other errands. Pity his stay here was so short. 

“Don’t let me keep you,” his brother said immediately. “In fact, we’ll let you carry on with that in peace. Come along, John.”

“Shall we just meet again next week?” Mycroft called after them.

“If you insist. Send a text.”

John thought he saw a slight smile curving the man’s lips as they went, but thought it just as likely that Sherlock’s mistrust had gotten to him. 

“Well.” Sherlock said. After about three minutes, he added another “Well.” and whistled for emphasis.

Uncertain what to make of it himself, John tossed out a neutral “Certainly,” to change it up. Sherlock shook his curls irritably.

“It must be the dissertation defense coming up that’s doing it. He’s stress-eating, coping with a task that taxes even his considerable brain. All that fat. I’d never have believed it of him.

“Don’t tell me you mind.” John tapped his own stomach, comfortably aware of its roundness. Studying to be a doctor or no, he’d found his fudge-fed weight pleasant and intended to keep it. He had a fair idea that Sherlock concurred with this idea, too, and that was just as well – disagreement on a basic point like that might have nipped their budding romance before blooming. 

Sherlock blew out a breath, hard, ducked behind John and squeezed him hard round the middle, palpitating the flesh playfully. “No. You’re right, I shouldn’t think anything of it. But Mycroft’s wrongfooted me again, he’s always doing that.”

“Oh, stop,” John said, laughing and pushing Sherlock’s arms away. “You know I don’t like you doing that unless we’re alone, it tickles so. And he didn’t seem that bad.”

“I’ll admit it in this case. Your company makes his almost tolerable. But it’s still odd seeing him be that heavy. In the meantime, though…it’s a nice day. You look fat. I don’t think I care for study this afternoon, do you?”

It wasn’t the most romantic of overtures, but John contrived to enjoy it anyhow.

 

So a weekly teashop trip, a different one every week, was added to their routine of study and oddities. Mycroft’s university wasn’t a long way away by train; John suggested that they visit him sometime, but was always assured that it was no trouble. The two brothers were as prickly as ever, exchanging bon mots, embarrassing reminiscences and sheer sarcasm with equal gusto. When John and Mycroft weren’t swapping biscuit flavours, anyhow. They were sounding each other out cautiously on the matter of food – as obvious a statement as their mutual size should have been, there were social niceties and neither of them quite wanted to be the first to go beyond commentary on cream tea treats and recipes. But there was rather too much enthusiasm in the man’s conversation for his weight to be a mere matter of thoughtless dissertation snacking, John thought.

Their food chats did come to dominate a large part of the visits, in fact. Sherlock said he had no objection. “That’s time I don’t have to be interacting with him. Please do. I’ll happily listen to talk about kumquats or fried baboons all day, if it’s you.”

And with discussion of recipes, of course, came the one inevitable thought.

“I think you should make him your fudge some time. Bury the hatchet for good.”

“No. He wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“He’s complimentary about foods he does like, always gets another serving and tips extra. I think he might. Did you even tell him about your success?”

“In an off-hand sort of way, after we’d safely won. I didn’t encourage his interest, and he didn’t offer any.”

“Look, I know that when you knew him, he was a bit of a pain, but…don’t you think you’re being a little harsh on him still? He’s being polite. He gets on with me. He’s even been toning down his comments to you lately.”

“It is very uncharacteristic,” Sherlock growled. “But I don’t see why I have to reward him with fudge for being a decent human being. I make you fudge. It was a chemistry experiment then and now it is an act of sexual satisfaction shared between the two of us. Not doing it.” 

“You’re going to have a very difficult life if I’m the only person you’ll agree to cook for. Suppose that Dean Lestrade ever asked for some of your special fudge, what would you do?”

His lover allowed a teasing glimpse of pink tongue to peek out of his mouth in mock disgust.

“You may, just possibly, have a glimmering of a point. Perhaps.”

“We’ll go early. Be there before he arrives, for once, and make him a present.”

He talked Sherlock into it, eventually – it wasn’t as if the man didn’t honestly like making fudge now – and the two of them prepared a milky blueberry flavour in honour of Mycroft’s school colours. They left a solid half-hour ahead of schedule and made it to the designated. This time it was a slightly more serious restaurant than usual – a new French bistro - very expensive, very snooty. They looked less than impressed with Sherlock’s beribboned box emblazoned with the word “FUDGE” in capital letters (an improvement that John had suggested and found he was now sorely regretting; Sherlock had been right, it did look stupid.)

They looked still less impressed when Sherlock gasped, let go of the fudge, dropped and caught it only by dint of a theatrical maneuver and a barrel roll that had him gently turning over to a stop at the foot of a booth. It was occupied by two persons who broke off holding hands and gazing soulfully at each other in favour of looking rather befuddled. 

“Dean Lestrade, sir?” he said from the floor.

“Holmes. Not your best entrance, that.”

John hastened up from the rear and allowed his jaw to drop in shock.

“Mycroft?”

“Pleasant to see you as always, John. You’re here early.”

“How long has this been going on?” Sherlock demanded, still clutching the box to himself protectively – word-side down, John observed.

“Several…oh, several months now, actually,” Mycroft said, quite calmly. “It started after that fudge competition. You see, I came down to see how you’d do.”

“How could you – Myc, that was my day! I’d finally found something that had absolutely nothing to do with you whatsoever, I was enjoying that.”

Mycroft held up his hands placatingly. “I know, I know! I realised that when I arrived, that the last thing you’d want was me interfering with your moment of glory. But I was glad I’d been there anyway. I wanted to be there when you won.”

“You guessed?”

“I knew. You’re unstoppable when you put your mind to it, brother mine.” He smiled. “And, well, I got to talking with Lestrade here afterwards. We hit it off rather.”

“I’d rather you not spread this too widely in the school, but of course if you choose to do so that’s your own affair,” Dean Lestrade said. “The faculty will be falling over themselves pretending they’re not jealous.”

“No fear. Tell the school that my brother’s dating the dean? I’m not remotely inclined to let that get abroad.”

“Aren’t you a bit…young?” John asked, fumbling for something to say. It seemed easier if he pretended it wasn’t actually the Dean sitting there, just some random older man sufficiently tickled by life that he was beaming fondly at even one of his most awkward students. 

Mycroft put on his patient face, the one employed when one of Sherlock’s barbs had not so much hit the mark as sailed over it and metaphorically bounced. “I’m several years older than Sherlock, and therefore not very much younger than the Dean, for all that you youngsters think of him as an old fossil. There’s no possible conflict of interest. I’m at another university and study a different discipline, no reason for me to be his student.”

“And that’s why you wrote and suggested we meet up. It was silly to mail me every week when you were already in town for your planned assignations.” Sherlock said.

“Saved on postage. And I hadn’t yet seen John. We both seem to be luckier than we deserve in the way of romantic partners.”

Sherlock put on the most disgusted face John had ever seen him pull, which was quite something given their chemistry experiments.

“We’ll just have a moment alone outside, shall we?” Sherlock said. He rose with as much dignity as possible, took Mycroft by the arm and pulled him outside.

“Do look after yours, Watson, would you? The Holmses are rather an armful.”

Dean Lestrade smiled, actually smiled. John nodded weakly.

“Would sir wish to be seated?” One of the waiters, seeing that the real hazard was gone, had swooped in.

“Might as well.”

“Here? There’s room at this booth for two more.”

John respectfully sat down and grabbed a menu, holding his breath, then let it out when Dean Lestrade offered him the bread basket. Quite fresh stuff they baked – it went nicely with spiced olive oil. 

When Sherlock and Mycroft came back in, the latter was carrying the fudge box, tucked discreetly under his arm. Neither of them mentioned it during the meal, which was substantial, dignified, and unexpectedly frolicsome – it seemed the Dean could be quite playful when he wasn’t on duty, so to speak. The conversation being likewise, and they even agreed to meet up again similarly next week.

 

“There’s one thing,” John said afterwards, once they’d waved the duo off and turned their steps towards the Baker Building. “You’ve been insisting all this time that Mycroft’s changed in the last few months.”

Sherlock grunted. “I suppose it can be put down to his new…relationship. I’m still not sure what I think about that, but no doubt he’s more relaxed now.”

“And you say he’s put on a lot of weight since then.”

“He certainly has.”

“You don’t think the two are connected?”

“What, with Dean Lestrade feeding Mycroft up with fudge?” Sherlock looked about to laugh, then stopped and looked simply horrified. “You know, they probably do. What a ghastly image. Whatever put it into your head?”

Because, John thought, he’d seen the look in the Dean’s eye, as the man stole glances at Mycroft when he thought attention was focused on the Holmses, and he recognized it. A combination of pride, sexual pleasure, and a thoroughly English sense of embarrassment – seeing the results of one’s labour in feeding up one’s partner, enjoying the success of it, and still feeling a little incredulous that the other party could be so willing to accede to one’s pleasures. Not just willing, if Mycroft was anything like him. Delighted. Shivery. Absorbed.

He knew that look precisely, because he’d seen it on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, on the other hand, naturally couldn’t.

“Nothing,” John said innocently.

In the back of his mind, he started making plans to contact Mycroft discreetly, talk to him about being the subject of someone else’s urge to feed. It’d suddenly dawned on him that of course he and Sherlock weren’t the only people in the whole world who had such a relationship, based on companionship and attraction but also a mutual behaviour about food, giving and receiving. Probably a kink or something. Maybe he’d look for it in the psychiatry journals next week.

Sherlock nestled his head against John’s shoulder, missed a step and awkwardly fumbled, and decided to carry on walking normally instead. “I hate that I know what you’re thinking right now. There are times when my ability to read people is more than detrimental to my peace of mind.”

“Oh? Want to repeat it back to me?”

“No. Just no. Please don’t make me think about my brother’s sex life any longer?”

His tone was all puppyishly pleading; John grinned and rubbed up against him. “All right. Tell me what I’m thinking now, eh genius?”

“If you say so…” With a swoop, Sherlock delved in, holding him in a mock-tango pose before starting in an theatrical series of snogs. Rather a feat to hold his weight like that, John thought, before losing track of rational thought entirely.

“More like this, eh?”

“Right in one,” John said, breathlessly.

 

“What a youthful couple,” Dean Lestrade commented to Mycroft (the pair of them having made it about five steps before looking at each other and succumbing to the impulse to double back and see how their younger counterparts were getting on). “Not a morsel of dignity in the pair of them.”

“Far better to comport one’s self in a discreet fashion, truly.”

“Most certainly.”

“Ah well. What’s in the box? Fudge?”

“Indeed. New recipe my brother’s cooked up. I expect marvels of it.”

“Then I suggest we go and put the matter to an empirical test.”

Mycroft gave the Dean a light if lingering peck on the cheek. “Somewhere a little more private, perhaps.”

And two thoroughly fat and happy couples went on their respective ways.

**Author's Note:**

> So when I did “The Fudge Affair” (a generic sort of title, intended to sound vaguely Doyle-esque), I threw in Lestrade because he works very nicely for the function I wanted – the authority figure who humours Sherlock but is in no way fooled by his antics. Working out the plotting of the fic was essentially just a matter of working the prompt into my pre-existing setup, creating a version of Mycroft who was believably both this Sherlock’s brother and this Lestrade’s paramour, and also Fatlock on top of it all. I didn’t especially feel like reinventing the wheel when there was no need to do so...and it allowed me to shed further light on the previous story’s characterisation, too. Also, to do a John-and-Sherlock-dealing-with-a-relationship story, which is rather harder and more interesting work than just having them fall blissfully into each other’s arms. 
> 
> (If anyone asks me for further Uni fics, I’m sticking with this setting. It’s just simpler. As I said upon first posting, I’ll probably have to make it a trilogy if only to see how the feud with Moriarty ends.)
> 
> Also a song lyric for a title again. I like to pick songs that I think the listening of which will throw an extra dimension onto a story, throw it into a new and unexpected light and heighten the plotting if you listen to it after reading the story (or possibly before, in which case you may be tipped off about plot points). It’s sort of a bonus extra. 
> 
> However, in this case the original Dire Straits song has absolutely nothing to do with anything in the story, thematically or otherwise. I can only plead the lateness of the hour or something when I was first working on this. 
> 
> Finally...I’ve not yet watched the Guy Richie Sherlock, as there's never any one time when it seems terribly urgent to go see a bloke from Manhattan try to play an English folk hero. But linking in Gatiss’ comedy background with the Fry-Mycroft gag was irresistible.


End file.
